


Like A House On Fire

by Darling_Pretty



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: THIS IS A WEIRD CROSSOVER, also weirdly depressing, peggy and phryne brotp it up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:01:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9392552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Pretty/pseuds/Darling_Pretty
Summary: After Steve disappears, Peggy is a bit aimless. Phryne Fisher is on the case and almost gets herself shot in the process.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Personally, I think Peggy Carter and Phryne Fisher are kindred spirits who would get along like a house on fire. So of course I lumped them in together.

Peggy knows that there is no use in crying. The plane is crashed, the war is over, and Steve is dead. There is nothing to be done about any of it and crying only prolongs the miserable reality.

 

Going back to work is really the best thing for her, but the war is won and she quickly finds herself going the way of the gas lamp—irrelevant.

 

Her hands are shaky. She subsists entirely on coffee and toast, the times she can will herself to eat. Dugan and Howard go out of their way to smuggle her Steve’s footlocker. Peggy suspects that Phillips turned an incredibly blind eye to that theft. It sits unopened in her apartment at the foot of her bed. She hasn’t summoned the courage or strength to open it yet.

 

She’s exhausted and nauseous nearly all the time. Peggy can’t remember ever sleeping more in her life. There are days it seems that’s all she does and then there are nights she sits up and waits for the sun. Perhaps she should worry about it, but she can’t seem to summon the energy for that either.

 

She’s just woken from a near hour-long nap when there’s a scratching at the door until the knob turns. Peggy automatically reaches for the pistol under her pillow.

 

“Hello, Pip!”

 

The woman’s cheery Australian accent fills the room. Peggy relaxes. “I almost shot you,” she says accusingly.

 

“I knocked, but there was no answer. Fortunately I’m rarely without my lock picks.”

 

“That doesn’t change the fact that I still nearly shot you!”

 

“Well, if nothing else, I’m happy to hear you keep yourself well armed.”

 

Peggy sits up fully. “What on earth are you doing here, Aunt Phryne?”

 

It’s a bit of a misnomer, calling her aunt. The older woman is no more related to her than President Roosevelt himself. Still, Phryne Fisher could be considered as integral to Peggy Carter’s growth as her own mother—Phryne’s chum from their later school days. For as long as she could remember, Phyrne called her Pip—short for Pipsqueak.

 

She’d taught her how to shoot when Peggy was eleven and Phryne came to visit. Peggy’s mother had nearly had a conniption fit. Phryne always brought sweets and stories of far-flung places like Australia and the Continent. None of them were appropriate and Peggy loved them. She didn’t come to visit very often but when she did, Peggy would hang on her every word.

 

“Your mother asked me to come.”

 

“Hardly seems like you to do my mother’s dirty work.”

 

“She’s worried about you and I have to confess, I am too, Pip.”

 

“I’m fine.” It’s a stock response, one that works only on anyone unwilling to truly see her.

 

“You’re not.”

 

Peggy stares at the older woman. Her hair is still jet black, her eyes hardened with a bit of a challenge.

 

“I’m not,” Peggy sighs.

 

Phryne’s eyebrow rises and she sits on the bed next to Peggy. “Has it anything to do with the young man in the photograph?”

 

Peggy’s clipped a picture of Steve from the newspaper and it rests in the corner of her mirror. Her silence is telling and she knows it.

 

“Do you love him?” Phryne’s voice is quiet, gentle. Her secrets will be safe with the older woman and she knows it. Phryne’s always kept Peggy’s secrets, from the secret stash of sweets to her minor school day troubles.

 

“I loved him,” she admits.

 

“I see.” There’s so much Peggy wants to tell her, but she can’t find the words.

 

“Did he love you?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Phryne is suddenly a flurry of activity, standing and tugging Peggy with her. “Alright, Pip, up and at ‘em.”

 

Peggy chuckles—it sounds rusty. “What are we doing?”

 

“First we’re making a cup of tea. I’m no Dot, but I think I can manage not to kill you. You need something good and warm in your stomach. Then we’ll see where we are.”

 

Phryne is right. The tea warms Peggy through. Her hands don’t feel so cold. Slowly she finds herself sharing details about Steve—his artistry, his sweetness. His bravery. Things Phryne couldn’t possibly know from reading about Captain America.

 

The way he’d held her that dark night after his friend’s fall. Phryne’s not easily scandalized. Phryne, Peggy is quite certain, has done or at least heard it all.

 

Their last moments together. The painfully short kiss.

 

The radio conversation.

 

Too overcome, Peggy switches to her work now. Her frustrations with her coworkers. Being shoved to the side and made to take lunch orders. Pouring coffee just to scrounge up bits of information.

 

Feeling useless.

 

Feeling irrelevant and exhausted. She fought so hard and it seems for nothing.

 

The SSR set up is tricky. She can’t punch her way through it.

 

She wants to punch Thompson’s face in at least once a day.

 

They think she’s a whore, that she’s slept her way to her position.

 

They won’t change their minds.

 

Phryne’s face grows solemn. “Then I suppose you’re going to have to make them, Pip. That’s all there is to it.”

 

“But-”

 

The older woman’s hand shoots up, cutting off any protests Peggy might have. “Absolutely not, Pip. You’re not a wallflower and you know it. The problem is that you seem to have forgotten who you are.”

 

She’s right, of course. Phyrne usually is.

 

“I expect I’ll get through this just fine,” Peggy says. “Eventually.”

 

“You need closure, Pip.”

 

“Yes, well, there’s not much to be done on that front. I’ll be alright, Phryne, really.”

 

Phryne’s eyes narrow, never a good sign. It means she’s noticing, deducing. Peggy does her best to keep her face straight.

 

“Is there anything _else_ you’d care to share, Margaret?”

 

She knows that tone. It’s her mother’s, only infinitely more intimidating coming from Phryne Fisher’s mouth. Her mother’s tone she can flout and ignore, Phryne… not quite.

 

Peggy wets her lips. They’re chapped. Her hands aren’t in much better condition; it’s been cold lately.

 

“Pip?”

 

It’s the quiet inquiry that does Peggy in. Her breath is expelled in one fell swoop, around a lump in her throat. She’s done so damn well not crying so far, but a tear blazes a trail down her right cheek and she doesn’t wipe it away.

 

Looking up at the woman she’s looked up to for years, Peggy bites her lip.

 

“It’s just that…”

 

Peggy hesitates again.

 

“Pip, there’s nothing in this world you can say to make me think less of you.”

 

Finally, she admits it, the one thing she’s tried so hard to avoid saying aloud, to avoid even thinking.

 

“I’m pregnant.”


End file.
